Chapter 33 Zane
THIRTY-THREE
zane
The recording device presses against my chest like a knife blade to my throat.
Morrison decided to move forward with the operation after discussing it with his higher ups and his tech team sewed the device into the lining of my jacket this morning.
It’s invisible unless you know exactly where to look, but it will broadcast everything to the FBI surveillance van parked three blocks away.
They said it has six hours of battery life.
More than enough time to get what we need.
Assuming I live that long.
I rub the back of my neck, massaging out the stress knot as I loiter outside a warehouse in the Mission District.
It’s a dilapidated place that looks abandoned but is probably the headquarters for half a dozen illegal operations.
Volkov chose the location and texted me an address after I called him yesterday claiming desperation.
The conversation was easier than I expected. Turns out when you’re genuinely desperate, it comes through in your voice.
“Zane Christensen. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again.”
“Yeah, well, circumstances change.”
“Indeed they do. I heard about your father’s condition. Quite tragic.”
I already knew Dad was on their radar but it was still chilling to hear the words. These people make it their business to keep tabs on everything about everyone they might need to use.
“His medical bills are getting worse. His condition’s deteriorating faster than the doctors expected.”
“And your current employment situation?”
“Coaching pays shit compared to playing. I’m barely covering the basic care, and now they’re saying he needs specialized treatment that costs even more.”
“How much more?”
“Fifteen grand a month. Money I don’t have.”
My heart damn near stopped during the pause that followed. I upped the amount to sound more desperate.
“You understand that our previous business relationship ended unpleasantly.”
“I understand that I tried to walk away when I should have honored my commitments. I was young and stupid.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m older and broke. And I have access to something you might find valuable.”
“Which is?”
“NHL players. Young ones, desperate ones, the kind who make bad decisions when they’re under pressure.”
“We should meet. Discuss your situation in person.”
“When and where?”
“I’ll send you an address. Tomorrow, three PM.”
Then the line went dead. I stared at my phone for a long time afterward, wondering if I’d just signed my own death warrant.
As I stand outside this warehouse twelve hours later, I’m thinking I definitely did.
The door opens before I can knock. Alexei, the head enforcer from Volkov’s organization, the one who makes threats real, glares at me. At six-foot-four and two-fifty pounds, he’s the kind of muscle that doesn’t need weapons to do serious damage.
“Christensen.”
“Alexei.”
“You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
He stares at me for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then he moves aside and waves me inside.
The warehouse is bigger than it looks from the street. High ceilings, concrete floors, the smell of motor oil and something chemical. There are offices built into the back wall, cheap wood paneling and fluorescent lights that flicker intermittently like the panic flaring in my chest.
Volkov’s waiting in one of the offices, sitting behind a metal desk. He’s wearing an expensive suit, polished as always, and looks completely out of place in this place.
“Zane. Good to see you again.”
“Mikhail.”
“Please, sit.” He gestures to a chair across from his desk. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course. Always business with you.” He opens a file folder, pulls out several photographs, and slides them toward me. “I’ve been reviewing your previous work with us. Quite impressive, really. Twelve games over eight months, never once suspected by league officials.”
The photos show me in goal during various games in Detroit. Action shots, probably taken from the stands.
“You were very talented at making mistakes look natural.” Volkov smiles. “It’s a skill that’s not as common as you might think.”
“I had good motivation.”
“Yes, your father’s medical bills. Dementia is a cruel disease.”
The fake sympathy in his voice makes my skin crawl, but I keep my expression neutral. “That’s why I called you.”
“Of course. And your current coaching position…how is that working out?”
“It’s work. But coaching pays a fraction of what playing paid.”
Volkov nods like gives a shit about my father’s welfare instead of calculating a way to exploit it.
“And you mentioned having access to players who might be interested in supplemental income?”
I swallow past the growing lump in my throat.
“Several. Young guys, financial pressure, performance anxiety. The usual profile.”
“Anyone specific?”
“There’s a goalie. Tate Barnes. Been struggling this season, family pressure, career uncertainty. He’d be perfect for your kind of work.”
I hate saying his name, hate using him as bait even though it’s not real. But Volkov’s expression sharpens with interest.
“Barnes. Yes, we’re familiar with his situation.”
“You are?”
“We make it our business to be familiar with potential assets. Mr. Barnes has interesting vulnerabilities.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he has people he cares about. The kind of leverage that makes cooperation more likely.”
They’ve been watching Tate’s family. Just like I suspected, just like Morrison hoped they’d reveal.
“You’ve been watching?”
“We’ve been watching several potential assets.
Mr. Barnes, his family, his routines. We also had someone visit his coach’s father as well.
” His lips curl upward into a nasty smile.
“It’s amazing what confused old men will tell friendly strangers about their sons.
We like to be in the know on potential and past assets because you just never know when you might cross paths again. ”
Fear slams into my chest. That motherfucker. He just confirmed that they’re the ones who’ve been visiting my father, gathering intelligence about me while he was too confused to understand what was happening.
“So you’re interested?”
“Potentially. But first, let’s discuss your role in such an arrangement.”
“My role?”
“You can’t throw games anymore, obviously. But you could identify targets, provide intelligence, and help with recruitment.” Volkov leans back in his chair. “A coaching position provides excellent access for that kind of work.”
“What kind of intelligence?”
“Performance patterns, psychological profiles, financial pressures. The kind of information that helps us craft effective approaches.”
“And recruitment?”
“Introducing potential assets to our organization. Making the initial contact seem natural and legitimate.”
This is exactly what Morrison needs…admission of conspiracy, recruitment practices, targeting methods. I just need to keep him talking.
“What’s the pay structure for that kind of work?”
“For someone like Barnes? Fifty thousand, since he’s high value.”
“Define high-value.”
“Starting goalies in major markets. Players with significant media profiles. Anyone whose cooperation provides maximum return on investment.”
“Like Barnes.”
Volkov nods. “A player of his caliber, in a market like Oakland, could be worth considerable money to the right organization.”
“So what’s the next step?”
“The next step is proving your commitment to our organization.”
“How do I do that?”
A cold smile lifts Volkov’s lips. “By demonstrating that you understand the consequences of betrayal.”
The office door opens. Alexei steps inside and closes it behind him.
“You see, Zane, we’ve had some interesting conversations recently. With people who claim to know about your current affiliations.”
My blood turns to ice. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Federal agents. Very persistent people. They seem to think you might be willing to cooperate with them in exchange for certain considerations.”
Shit.
“I don’t know any federal agents.”
“Of course not. But hypothetically, if you did know such people, what would you tell them about our organization?”
“Nothing. Because there’s nothing to tell.”
“Nothing to tell. Even though you worked for us for eight months? Even though you threw twelve games and earned six hundred thousand dollars in the process?”
He’s testing me. Seeing if I’ll admit to crimes, seeing if I’m recording this conversation.
“That was a long time ago. Different life.”
“Indeed. A life that ended when you tried to terminate our business relationship without permission.” Volkov’s voice gets harder. “Do you remember what happened next?”
“My knee got fucked up.”
“Your knee got fucked up because we arranged for you to have an accident during practice. A very specific accident that ended your career.”
There it is. He just admitted that they destroyed my career intentionally.
“I remember.”
“Good. Because that’s what happens to people who betray our organization. And it’s what will happen to people who work with federal agents to investigate our organization.”
Alexei steps closer to my chair. I catch sight of the bulge of a shoulder holster under his jacket.
“The question, Zane, is whether you’re here because you genuinely need work, or because someone asked you to gather information about our business practices.”
“I genuinely need work.”
“I hope so. Because if you’re recording this conversation, if you’re cooperating with law enforcement, if you’re anything other than a desperate former athlete trying to pay his father’s medical bills... ” Volkov shrugs. “Well. Accidents happen.”
Alexei’s hand moves to his jacket and slides it open. He doesn’t draw his weapon, just reminds me it’s there.
“I’m not recording anything.”
“Of course not. But you won’t mind if we check?”
“Check what?”
“Stand up, please.”
The hairs on the back of my neck shoot up, my heart thrashing in my chest.
I stand slowly, trying to think of a way out that doesn’t end with me dead on this cold floor. Alexei moves behind me, starts patting me down professionally. Shoulders, arms, back, chest.
His hand stops over the recording device.
“Mikhail.”
“Yes?”
“He’s got something.”
Volkov’s expression darkens. “What kind of something?”
Alexei rips open my jacket, pulls out the recording device, and holds it up.
“The kind that transmits to federal agents.”
The silence in the office is deafening.
“So,” Volkov says finally, his voice edged with anger. “The desperate father story was bullshit.”
“No. That part’s real.”
“But the cooperation with law enforcement is also real.”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Eight months.”
“And what exactly did you tell them about our organization?”
“Everything I knew.”
Volkov nods slowly and steeples his fingers.
“Alexei.”
“Yeah?”
“Kill him.”
Alexei draws his gun and my breath hitches.
“Wait,” I say, holding out a hand.
“Wait for what?” Volkov asks through gritted teeth.
“You just confessed to organized conspiracy, multiple players, and years of operation,” I say. “And every word was transmitted to FBI agents who are probably surrounding this building right now.”
Volkov looks at Alexei, who still has his gun pointed at my chest.
“Shoot him.”
“Mikhail, if the FBI is listening—” Alexei says.
“Shoot him anyway.”
The gunshot is impossibly loud in the small office. The impact sends me flying backward against the wall. I crumple to the floor, shallow, sharp gasps of air expelling from my lips. I look down at my hand on my chest, sticky and wet with blood spreading through the fabric.
But I’m still conscious. Still breathing.
Still alive.
“Finish him,” Volkov says.
Alexei raises the gun again.
My vision blurs and I see three guns pointed at me now. An icy numbness creeps up my legs. I can’t move, can’t speak. My eyelids droop.
The office door slams open and an FBI tactical team in body armor runs in with automatic weapons.
“Federal agents! Drop your weapons!”
Alexei spins toward the door, gun still in his hand. Bad choice.
The tactical team doesn’t give warnings twice.
I struggle to keep my eyes open while EMTs work on me. The recording device is still transmitting. I can hear Morrison’s voice through someone’s radio, coordinating the arrest.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?” the EMT asks.
I try to answer but nothing comes out. My mouth won’t work. Bright flashes of light explode behind my eyelids.
“We need to move now. He’s losing too much blood.”
The world tilts as they lift me onto a stretcher and run me out of the place. I can’t see or hear anything clearly.
“Is there someone you want us to call?” I hear the question, but the voice sounds far away.
I try to think of an answer, try to form words, but darkness creeps in from all sides.
The last thing I hear before everything goes black is Morrison’s voice: “We got them, Christensen. We got everything.”
Then…nothing.